


Closed Doors

by NateChal



Category: Original Work
Genre: Flash Fic, Lovecraftian, Monsters, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21756400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NateChal/pseuds/NateChal
Summary: A child phychologist takes on a case that will have lasting effects on him when he, unintentionally, invites horror into his life.
Kudos: 1





	Closed Doors

Jonathan Hitchingston, PhD  
Child Psychology Specialist  
Journal entry on the case of Benjamin Wells

Let me say before I begin that nothing I write here is exaggerated. I’m a professional in my field and would not undermine my work with lies.

Benjamin Wells, a young boy 7 years of age, first came to me with his mother Susan Wells on June 9th, 1986. At the time his mother was concerned about night terrors he'd been having, fears that could only dwell in the mind of a child.

I had seen this before, many times actually, and fell straight into my usual routine. Ben told me that he was old enough to get up at night and go to the washroom on his own, which I garnered was a fairly regular occurrence. The boy said that when he walked by a room at night he would catch a glimpse of movement where there ought not to be anything there. He also told me that he sometimes woke feeling like he wasn’t the only one in his bedroom, which was later solved when his parents got a dog to sleep with him at night.

These were certainly stories born of a wild imagination.

Ben was great in school, a saint at home, and outstandingly polite to everyone he met. He was a prime example of what every parent wanted their child to be. But since these night terrors began he had become increasingly remote.

He and I spent many sessions trying to work through his midnight hallucinations. Sadly, little progress was made. Ben had convinced himself, utterly, that there was something in their house that only came out at night. His parents even tried walking him to the bathroom, and it seemed to work for awhile, but as soon as they stopped his phantoms returned.

Then came the day he told me about something that’d happened to him the previous night. The story chilled me, the clarity with which Ben told it left me questioning myself for filing his fears away as delusions out of hand. Ben woke having to go to the bathroom and before leaving his room and patted the dog on the head (a reassurance technique I’d advised him to try). 

He told me it seemed cooler than usual in the house that night as he made his way towards the end of the hall. I had never been to their house, but I could paint a mental picture of at least the upstairs as he spoke. Like I said, the narration was too eloquent to have sprung from the mouth of a child. Ben must have been truly frightened by the experience to have retained such detail. Thankfully his parents had closed the doors in the hall so he couldn’t see inside the dark rooms, but when Ben got to the stairwell he froze. He stood trembling at the top, hand on the railing, staring into the silent moonlit shadows below. He claimed he saw something at the bottom of the stairs, it’s hand also holding onto the railing. Cautiously he took a step back, but as he did the thing also took a step up the stairs. The boy described it as a gangly human figure with long greasy black hair and hideously bulging eyes. It’s mouth was abnormally wide and every so often an ophidian tongue flicked out from between thin lips.

Each time Ben took a step back the thing would mimic him by taking a step towards him, until, mid-flight, it broke the pattern and began moving faster without prompting from Ben. The boy ran into his room, acutely aware of the horror grasping at his heels, and shut the door. He sat with his back to the far wall for some time, expecting the thing to barge in any second. It never did. Instead he only heard scratching at the door, and once even a long fingernail tap-tapping against the wood. The dog never barked, having fallen into an unnaturally deep sleep (the same as his parents I assume, as they claim to have heard nothing).

There were no marks on the door the next morning, but Ben’s memories were hideously vivid.

I advised his parents after that session to seek better care than I could provide. I wanted to help Ben, really I did, but the situation had escalated beyond my abilities. Ben needed more than a psychiatrist. I firmly believe it was the right thing to do.

I sleep at my office now from time to time—like tonight—when the moon is full and the midnight shadows seem to slink and skulk on the street below. I don’t stay because I choose to, I only live fifteen minutes away, but after the last patient of the day has gone and the building is empty, I can hear a scratching at the door. Normally I would suspect mice, or maybe the janitor, but the infernal dread I feel when reaching for the doorknob stops me every time, leaving me trapped in my office with the image of a gangly human figure with bulging eyes and an ophidian tongue in the corridor beyond.

Please, sleep with your bedroom door open. At least then when you hear scratching in the night you won’t have to wonder what might be lurking just outside your door.

Scratch—scratch—scratch.


End file.
